The Vortex
by SomethingSimsy
Summary: "It was quiet in the room when England started choking." It was an early morning in London, the strongest and most influential nations all gathered, when something happened to England. He was choking, he was suffocating, he was, it was almost as if, drowning. Floods sweep Britain, and England is sinking below. Can they save him in time, or is he in too deep? Rating may go to T.
1. The Falling - Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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It was quiet in the room when England started choking. There were a few stares, glares and unimpressed looks at first, regarding him with hostility and annoyance, letting him know that his actions were just another interruption in their never-ending world summit. England had been coughing over the past week, after all; everyone assumed it was just another episode. But it was only when the legs of a chair scraped across the ground and a body fell forward, gagging with strangled cries at nothing, that anybody started to pay any real attention. England was suffocating. England was being strangled. England was drowning on air.

"What's happening?" someone shouted.

The only thing England heard after an unanswered question was the blurred noises of formal shoes hitting the carpeted floor, getting louder and louder as they approached him. His vision was blurred behind his slowly closing eyelids, the desire to give up taking over him. The choking sounds had dulled and faded into the air which only led to the blind panic of a few, but deep concern and confusion of all. Plus, he was lying on his side, and he couldn't help but feel he was sinking into the short-haired carpet that seemed to feel colder and colder against him every passing second.

"England, are you okay? Come on, answer me!"

_I recognise that voice_, a part of England's subconscious reassured him, trying to retrieve the face and name of whoever was speaking to him. Someone grabbed his shoulders and started shaking him with force and with a pair of very cold hands that England felt shiver against him. _America? _

England tried to make any response but his muscles failed to follow him, his mouth barely twitching as his lips quivered in any attempt to respond back. He had to convince himself, if anyone, that he was living, because he felt his subconscious accept the plausible idea of death as he began to slip away, falling deeper and deeper into the black abyss caving in on him.

"_England!_"

That was all he could hear before his senses completely shut off and he was abandoned, completely and utterly trapped in his own world, surrounded by unreachable souls that he so dearly wished he could reach out for. He called out, but his voice instantly warped against the blackness that carried him aimlessly. He started to scream, hoping for anything and everything to slip past his lips but nothing did. It was as if he was ten feet under water, his words being stolen and replaced with a closing and choking throat as he tried to gasp for air or _anything _to grip onto, but he couldn't find a single thing. He was all too isolated. He was all too _alone_.

He felt himself grow colder and his body began to feel heavy, like it was only pulling him down, further and away from the fading light above him. He had heard all the usual sayings when you are dying, _stay away from the light_, but in that moment staying away from the light only felt like he was sinking down to oblivion, inching closer and closer. And he was. At least sensing light meant some part of his brain worked, the only thing that kept him actually _living _and not some gormless zombie in a state of pure vegetation. But he kept slipping into the darkness, further and further down until he sunk completely.

_This is the end_, he heard himself think as he stopped being able to even properly process the meaning behind those words, but by that point he simply didn't care anymore. _This is the end for the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. _

But it wasn't the end. It was only the end of the beginning.

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**I don't know whether I will continue this or not, it depends if anyone wants me to; I have a few ideas. In the mean time, I am still continuing my **_**That December Morning **_**story, so there's always that.**

**Anyway, please let me know what you think!**


	2. The Drowning - Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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_Drifting._ That was all England could describe it as. It simply felt as though England was drifting from wave to wave, sea to sea, ocean to ocean. Except, he felt it was more confined than a sea or an ocean. Perhaps he was drifting on a river?

England's eyes sprung open when the eardrum-shattering rumble of thunder crackled in the sky above him. There was a brilliant flash of pale yellow light, blinding his disorientated eyes until the colour faded, the outlined shapes of the clouds fading back to their dreary grey. The sky was a mixture of whites and greys, but it was completely smudged with shades of either colour.

Suddenly, he became a lot more aware of how heavy he felt, and how intensely cold he was. He looked over himself. His white dress shirt was stuck against his skin, stained in places but otherwise translucent, his pink, numbed flesh showing through.

At this stilling realisation, a cold chill ran up his spine and he was sent into a fit of shivers, his numb hands wrapping around his freezing body in an attempt to keep in any heat that may have remained. But there was none. He was shivering right down to his core, the darkened, cold and heavy material of his business suit and slacks weighing him down as he tried to lift himself out of the river he sank deeper into.

"Where am I?" England muttered to himself under his raspy breath. He looked around himself in a hope of seeing anything he recognized, then as his expectations dwindled, anything at all, but his efforts went unrewarded. He saw a shade of green through the heavy mist that blurred his vision somewhere in the far distance. It wasn't much to go by, but he was so, so desperate, and so England waded through the water that reached beyond his waist, _far _beyond. It was almost up to his chest, and it only seemed to get deeper. Soon, he was paddling.

He tried to focus all of his energy on getting his stiff and aching muscles to swing through the water, but in his frozen state he was useless. Soon breathing became harder and his lungs began to burn as he tried to breathe in as heavily as he could and hold it in for as long as possible, but his lungs let it go after a matter of seconds and he had to force tonnes of air down his throat just so he could _breathe _without falling to the bottom of whatever hell hole he currently crossed through.

Suddenly another crackle of thunder rippled through the air and he froze in shock as the blinding light filled the skies not a second after. _It's getting closer_, England thought, the pains and aches in his whole body and the heavy heaving of his chest becoming all the more apparent as he stopped himself from moving anything, his body slowly getting taken by the waves again as he tried to regain his strength, the water lapping against him and lightly pulling him along as he drifted aimlessly.

His strength never returned to him for as long as he wanted, so he gritted his teeth and winced as he threw his arms out in front of him, weaving them in and out of the water like paddles as his feet pushed off of anything he could feel under him. The sight of green seemed to become clearer as he presumed he neared it, a weak smile working its way onto his lips as he fantasised the pure delight of _rest_, rest from all the stress his poor legs and arms and body was going under. It was trauma; he didn't know how long it would take to recover and how he would even go about doing that.

England was lost among the waves of whatever and wherever he wandered, pulling the last strings of hope and determination he found inside himself to just strive enough to struggle his way across the lapping water. But he couldn't worry about that.

England had to worry about finding out why he felt as though he was still lapping on the waves and chasing his green, blurry hope in circles, forever being held still by the cold hands of a man who didn't want him to go anywhere. He could feel himself shiver with the idea. Then the heavens opened, and he could swear in the rumble of thunder above him he could hear someone call to him.

England only wanted answers.

The waves thrashed around as another storm started to brew, the wind picking up and spraying droplets of filthy water into the air as more continued to fall from the sky, splashing against the surface of the solid shape that was the river, or lake, or sea, or ocean.

England struggled against the violent current that slung him around like a rag doll, and he felt something hit him.

England felt himself be dragged under.

England stopped breathing.


	3. The Awakening - Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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"Is he okay?"

England couldn't see anything but pure blackness, and his mind was a blur. The cold suddenly started biting at his exposed flesh as he was lifted from the water. The freezing sting suddenly snapped back at his chin as icy water lapped over him.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

There was an awful scraping sound. England felt the freezing feeling spread all over his body as his thick, sodden blazer pressed the fabric of the shirt to his numbed skin. It was like thin sheets of ice slicing layers off his flesh!

"Is he breathing?"

"Put him on his side!"

Something pushed against England's shoulder and he felt himself fall onto his arm, his eyes rolling in his head as he tried to focus on anything from the sudden jolting movement. A blur of brown and grey came back to him, and he blinked.

England felt a snag in his throat and his stomach flipped. He twisted himself over, his stomach and chest heaving as he tried to push all the bile and cloudy, muddy water out of him. His hands tightened around his stomach as he heaved a final time, panting heavily and shivering violently from the exertion and strain he had just put his body, let alone mind, through.

Once he felt his breath steady he tried speaking. "Where am I?" his voice was hoarse and ragged. He tried to clear his throat, but it only erupted into a violent fit of coughs, for which a heavy hand patted him on the back, silencing him all too quickly.

"Where am I?" he repeated.

"We've got you," a voice reassured him, hoisting him up by the underarms, "let's get you some help."

England could feel his brain tumbling, and eventually, he settled on an answer he figured was in the correct language. "No... I don't want to do that..."

The soothing voice from before sighed gently and turned England to fully face, who he presumed, was some kind of paramedic, or part of the water aid brigade. All England could see, though, was a neon-yellow jacket that seemed to shine in the dull lighting despite itself. He could only put his trust in this figure. He trusted his people, didn't he? "We have to advise you to let us help you, only back in our ambulance, okay? We just need to give you a quick check over, and–"

"Okay," England sighed, "I trust you."

The aid worker nodded and continued helping England back to where they would treat him. He looked around him as his sodden shoes stumbled upon land. It wasn't dry land, though. The roads were drowned in puddles and the earth and grass were completely saturated. England couldn't help but wonder _where am I? _But, England knew all too well where he was.

He was in the little suburb of one of his south-eastern counties. He had heard about it enough on the news, from his people _and _his boss. He had personally gone to aid some of his citizens when the extreme weather first hit his country; it was a struggle, but most of his people were safe. But from there it got worse. It got so, _so _much worse. It was beyond his hands. So England closed the Thames Barrier in a last attempt to save the south-east of his country, and his capital, nonetheless; London. _At least I have saved London_, England often told himself in the weeks and days prior to where he found himself stumbling along, thinking the sentence over and over again bitterly, _at least that's all I've saved._

England was helped to a raised platform in what appeared to be the back of an ambulance, the open double doors to the side of him framing the horrendous scene he had just waded through tiredly. "Here we go, poppet, let's just sit you down there, alright?"

"Okay," England nodded, looking away from the exposed back half of the ambulance to avoid looking at what he failed to stop, "but please be as quick as you can."

The figure in the bright jacket nodded and set to work, poking and prodding England and occasionally asking him to respond to one thing or another, which he did with no struggle.

"Can you tell me your name, poppet?" The aid worker asked, trying to keep up a smile.

"Arthur Kirkland." England replied flatly.

The other nodded and agreed before continuing the interrogation. "And do you live around here, Arthur?"

England shook his head from side to side slowly.

The aid worker looked slightly puzzled, but quickly shook the expression away. "Oh, where are you from then?"

"London." England replied. "How far is the main city from here?"

"Quite a few miles, I'm afraid," the other said back, a grim expression falling over their face, "and considering the flood damage... I am not sure how easy it will be for you to get back there, poppet."

England nodded with a sigh, his eyes looking through the grey flooring of the ambulance back. It was just his ruddy luck that he would end up so far away from where he needed to be; how he even managed to do just that was still a complete and utter mystery to him, though. But he had to get back, no matter the cost. Being stranded in a desolate, flooded suburb was the opposite of what he was used to, and the additional cost of limited electricity and who knows what else was all too much for him to burden. So he would have to find a way out. How _else _would he survive?

Eventually, once the inspection was over, the aid worker stepped away somewhat reluctantly and nodded with a faint smile. Clearly, they had seen enough horrors for one day, or even an entire lifetime.

"Thank you." England nodded as he stepped out of the ambulance, the icy water rising up to his shins as he began to cautiously wade through the waters.

"Please," a voice called from behind him, causing England to turn around, his eyes falling back on the ambulance and its staff's brightly lighted jackets, "we don't know how you're getting home. Do you need any help?"

England somewhat wanted to agree, but he knew he couldn't. "No, it would be impossible, anyway. I'll be fine, please, don't worry." England then turned back on his heels and started wading through the waters again, but his journey was interrupted.

"Well, since you refuse our help, please, take these. We couldn't leave you like this in our right minds, so, here." the ambulance staff said, holding out a pair of deep brown rubber boots, one in each hand.

England treaded through the water again, suddenly all the more willingly conscious of just how soaked his leather shoes were, as he reached out for the boots. "Thank you." he mumbled gratefully under his breath as he slipped off his shoes and stepped into his Wellington boots, or _wellies_ as he much rather preferred.

Once he considered himself fully equipped, or as equipped as he would and could ever be, he set off, wading through the oily streets drowned in water. Somewhere, subconsciously, he knew that the sky was darker than he quite wanted it to be and that only meant one thing; he had either woken up at night or it was about to rain again. For once, he wanted it to be rain. _Anything _but night, _anything!_

England was wishing on the wrong thing. He should have hoped for a shield, or a knife, or _something _other than the impossible. England had the right to fear once again in his life. It would be night, the night that covered the powerless streets with pure and utter darkness, and it would be terrifying. England swallowed as he sensed the air turn a degree colder, and the sun become a degree lower in the shadowed sky.

England was wandering in the dark, and curiosity, as innocent and kind as it could be, killed the cat. It _always _killed the cat. And the darkness was England's unwilling curiosity.

A curiosity doesn't have to be consensual. Sometimes, it just has to be. And people, even _his _people, taking advantage of another's weakness? It was all too easy. Sometimes, it just has to be that way. Sometimes, England would have to play cat and mouse.

Sometimes, England would have to _be _the mouse.


	4. The Comforting - Chapter 4

**Important notice**** at the bottom of this page, **_**please read**__**!**_

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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"England?"

America sighed as his attempts to stir England from his sleep went unheard to deaf ears. Of course, why _would _England awake? He was out cold, as still as a stone, just limply lying on America's spare bed. America was simply desperate.

England had been staying at his own house ever since he almost choked himself to death at the meeting. However, he was not alone.

Once all the nations at the meeting were sure that England wasn't going to make himself living to the world just then, they left, but not without finding appropriate care for him. Every nation was busy, as always, and they all had places to be. However, whilst America very much did want to go back home, his flight had been delayed, apparently due to the bad and bitter weather his country was going through. So, as was believed the entirely sensible thing to do, the other nations dumped England on him, to take care of England until he opened his eyes again or at least until he could fly home himself. America accepted. If there was one good thing he got out of it, he got a place to stay without the expenses for a while. But that by no means meant America was abandoning his own country; he still had a phone and the internet, even if a lot of his country was left disconnected.

"Well, I guess I'll just leave you to it." America said with a shrug, turning away from England's bed. That was, until, he heard a small noise from behind him.

"England?" America tried again, quickly jogging back to England's bedside. "England, you awake?"

England whimpered slightly in his sleep, his face scrunching together for a split second in pain before it slowly faded back to its previous dull, bland expression of unresponsiveness. America sighed, his eyes still trained on the smaller man below him. Why wouldn't he just wake up? Why was he even _not _awake, anyway?

The mystery of England still dwelled in America's and every nation's minds. One had suggested it was just a cough taken too far, another that he had simply choked on his water. America, however, had something else on his mind – the Polar Vortex.

America had been feeling under the weather around that time. He too had been affected by the Polar Vortex, his hands and feet often going numb with the bitter cold that took chunks out of his country. The deaths, destruction and devastation always swept his mind, and his thoughts couldn't sway from it. He had heard that England had been affected too, but he didn't think much of it. America thought he probably had it worse, and while his mind did fall to others, it was to his dear brother, Canada. But did his mind fall to Britain? It didn't more than it usually did, whether that is a lot or a little is up to any interpretation.

"England," America sighed to himself, perching on the edge of the bed, making a small dip as it adjusted to the newly added weight, "why did this have to happen to any of us?"

_I'm not sure_, England's subconscious somewhere and somehow thought through the fogs that blurred his clouded mind. _I ask myself the same question._

But England and America had to be strong. While crisis gripped their countries, they had to be strong for the victims, all innocent. They had to be strong for the people losing their livelihoods, loved ones and lives. They had to be strong. What is there without strength?

They just had to grip onto what strength they could, or they'd find it hard struggling and straining their eyes to see the light of day beyond it. Yes, there were troubles around the corner. Yes, the troubles seemed never-ending. Yes, the troubles were hard to fight through. But they would find a way. They needed just that amount of strength, that amount of hope, to get through. Then, they would be breathing in the end, wouldn't they?

Wouldn't they?

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**This was quite a short chapter, but it will pick up again once I switch around the character I'm following again. But, first, I feel like I need to address an issue.**

**After reading many 'bad Hetalia fanfiction' blogs and the like, I've realised something. Under many of these blogs, they have a section for offensive fanfiction. In there, there are the worst and most atrocious things you will ever see in the Hetalia universe and its fandom. While some of it addresses, well, World War II related issues (if you know what I mean), some of it is on natural disasters. I have grimaced reading about fanfictions of the Japan tsunami disaster, as well as ones not regarding natural disasters, but 9/11 and similar topics. But it was then, I realised, **_**I'm **_**one of those people. **

**I have written a fanfiction about a real-life event where people's lives have been ruined, some even ended, and they can never return to them the same way they did before, if at all. So, it is in that I realised that what I'm doing is offensive and wrong. **

**Because of this, despite what you may be thinking, I am **_**not **_**abandoning this fiction (some of you are probably very displeased with that decision if you are affected by the Polar Vortex in whichever country), **_**but **_**I plan on addressing the issue perhaps more tastefully and respectfully than I might of already been doing, although I always had this issue in mind. **

**Sorry that note was **_**so **_**long, but I think it's necessary. I am sorry if I did offend anyone with this or make you uncomfortable (though I never got any feedback regarding this), but now I will approach it with a lot more in mind and respect for any of the disaster victims.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. The Recovering - Chapter 5

**The final instalment! ****(This has been edited due to some awkward wording, plus I wanted to mention a few more things.)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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"It's dangerous at night." England murmured, his voice quiet as he shifted in his heavy sleep.

"_It's dangerous at night." England murmured, his voice quiet as his whispers faded into the night air. _

England was still in a daze, his hazy mind swallowing him up in the situation he found his devastated country in, except, he hadn't actually _found _it like it was just then, not at least in reality.

_England was still in a daze, his numb feet swishing through the thick, muddied water that turned his devastated lands into rivers, except, they were less like rivers and more like lakes, even oceans, perhaps. _

"England?" America questioned softly, his head peeking through the door that quietly creaked open.

"_Excuse me?" a voice questioned with a completely bewildered and baffled sound about it, England's body quickly twisting on the spot, his eyes trailing the direction of the strange voice that called to him._

"Who's there?" England asked tiredly, his eyes scrunching together as he appeared to feel a shock of pain, the expression never faltering as his head started to thrash from side to side on the soft pillow below him.

_England stayed silent, his eyes widening as he tried to let any last scraps of light in, trying to pick out any shapes shifting in the moon-lit water. His head twisted around violently, in any hope of spotting anything. He didn't ever notice a single thing. _

England's hand lunged out spontaneously and latched onto America's arm, the grip loosening slightly as a cold shiver was sent up his spine.

_England cautiously stretched his arm out, his hand running in circles around him, looking for anything, anyone, someone that would give him help. Then it _did _grip something. England loosened his grip significantly, however, once he realised what he had just done, let alone the fact that whatever he grabbed a hold of was bitterly cold._

"England, you awake?" America asked, gently shaking England's shoulders. _That_ was a mistake.

_England felt the ground shift under his feet, causing him to stumble backwards with flailing arms as he let go of whatever he had gripped onto before. With no protection, no barrier, no nothing, he fell backwards, his leg pointing skyward as he felt the water engulf his entire form, a freezing and numbing sensation quickly spreading all over his body as the quick pang of agony quickly faded into a calming sense of stillness. Or perhaps it was nothingness. _

"This is ridiculous. He's been out cold for weeks on end now!" America huffed, silently cursing the man that lay far from peacefully in front of him. He let his eyes drift, landing on the small but satisfactory nightstand to the side of the bed. Then, his brilliant brain hatched a plan.

_Soon, England couldn't feel anything at all. Something was stopping him from getting up, most likely the painful stretching he felt whenever he even flickered some life into his muscles. So, he let them lie dormant. But there was no fear in this. Something was happening._

America reached for the stand, getting a particularly tight grip on the cold surface of what he held. He lifted it up, holding it level to his eyes, peering right through the glass its walls were made of, before he looked down, staring at England's pale face that appeared to be, remarkably, coming to. His plan would still work perfectly.

_A bitter, biting, icy cold burned at his skin, making it go tingly in an instant as he begged for the unavailable warmth he needed. Then he opened his eyes grudgingly, fighting the pain the cold winds brought to them. Well, he wasn't expecting _that.

"America?" England asked as he opened his eyes fully, his brow furrowed slightly with curiously.

"Yes," America said in return, nodding his head happily as he handed England something, "now, I need you to drink this."

England studied what was held in America's hand before taking it curiously; he held it up to the light that barely lit the room, recoiling slightly once he realised what it was. "Water?"

America nodded once more. "I'm not doing it to hurt you, but you've barely drank in, well, weeks. In all the times that you've woken up, which is quite a few, actually, you usually just fell asleep again." When England continued to look reluctant, America continued, letting a small, solemn smile spread across his lips. "Why not think of it as your body absorbing all the water, huh?"

"I doubt it will help," England added bitterly, taking a small sip at the water before setting it down on the bedside stand again, "but please, tell me, America, has the rain stopped?"

America shrugged slightly. "I have a crisis in my own country too, I just can't abandon it. But I don't think the crisis in your country has got beyond control, or, well, any more so than it already was."

England nodded, briefly glancing at the cup of water before his eyes returned to America. "But so many lives in all of our countries, America..."

America smiled softly, but any evidence of complete happiness had long since diminished. "I know, for me, my brothers, and you and your brothers, too, not to forget the Netherlands and Denmark... I just hope we can help them in some way."

England didn't even give him a glance. "Yes, I hope so, too, but we all know it won't happen. It won't happen, will it?"

"We'll all recover," America said softly, a grim hint in his voice, "eventually."

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_**My respect, heart and hope goes out to all of those affected by disasters and destruction of any kind, recent or otherwise!**_

**Please forgive me if I offended anyone and please send me a message (or leave a review)!**

**Sorry, also, if the ending seems rushed, but I was unsure how to continue this story particularly, so I thought I would end it on a coming-to scene set, around now as the recovery of Britain, and presumably America (I am sorry I do not keep so up to date with my friends on the other side of the pond), continues. But the real struggle is far from over. **


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